


House of Cards

by doomcake



Series: Across the Universe [2]
Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Domestic Fluff, Drama, Explicit Language, Gangsters, Italian Mafia, M/M, Male Slash, Pseudo-quantum physics, Yaoi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-16
Updated: 2013-02-16
Packaged: 2017-11-29 15:41:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/688636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doomcake/pseuds/doomcake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>This—some semblance of normalcy—is something he actually misses, even if he never would admit to it.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>If the wind is strong enough, even the sturdiest house of cards will come tumbling down.<br/>... Or, a deceptively fluffy fic to start a long string of rather unfortunate events for the Vongola famiglia.<br/>[divergent post-TYL arc, takes place about 8-9 years after]<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	House of Cards

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** Katekyo Hitman Reborn! and all affiliated characters and settings are the creative property of Akira Amano, Shueisha, Weekly Shounen Jump, and any other companies holding the title to its license and distribution (VIZ Media, etc.). Used without permission for non-profitable entertainment purposes.
> 
> \--
> 
> Hello again! This is another fic that's a few years old at this point. The next part will probably be up today or later this week, if I don't get to it tonight.
> 
> Part 1/? of "Across the Universe" series
> 
>  **PLEASE NOTE:** This story marks the beginning of a _prequel_ arc to "dive" (see the previous part in this series). This particular story begins a few years before the events in "dive".
> 
>  **WARNINGS:** Strong language (my Gokudera tends to be pretty foul-mouthed), pre-established M/M relationship, and yes there are OCs in this fic (but I swear they're only there because we don't have enough KHR characters to fill these roles--most of them are pretty minor). Also, this fic has not been beta read, so my apologies in advance for remaining errors.
> 
>  **RECOMMENDED LISTENING:**  
>  ♪ [peace](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ix4BcJ0YxRw) { george winston }

**« house of cards »  
♦ ♣ ♠ ♥**

Gokudera sits cross-legged and huddles further under the kotatsu as he watches the news, scowling as he reaches for another tissue. His joints ache like an old man’s, and he’s got a headache that puts all his concussions to shame (he thinks). Four days until the New Year, and he’s fighting off a goddamn _cold_ , of all things. With a sneeze and a round of coughs, Gokudera grunts and takes a sip of tea and leans back into the pillows stacked up between his back and the couch behind him. He scowls more at the weather forecast, as it predicts cold and rain and more cold for the next week. Hatsumode is going to be miserably cold this year, and Gokudera’s having second thoughts about attending.  
  
Holidays are usually his favorite time to get caught up on all the other things that get tossed to the wayside during normal business hours. He rarely travels outside Japan during the holidays; most of his time ends up being spent in the labs, working on projects and experiments and things that, when completed, will bring him a sense of ease. This is the time of year when most of Vongola-run and Vongola-affiliated businesses are on vacation, which means fewer business trips and meetings for Gokudera to arrange and attend, and means more time to be spent in the lab.  
  
Except this year, because he feels royally like crap and Yamamoto’s mother hen tendencies are on fucking overdrive. (Gokudera isn’t about to admit—not even to himself—that, deep down, he likes the attention. … Sometimes. It’s reminiscent of how Bianchi used to take care of him when he was sick as a little boy in Italy, except without the poisonings and the massive stomachaches that always seemed to accompany her care.)  
  
It’s bad enough that he hasn’t even made it out of the apartment long enough to get to his lab for the last several days. Not being able to work on his pet projects makes him fidgety and cranky, and he feels like he should be doing _something_ other than just sitting around feeling miserable. Time always seems to be of the essence; as the ten-year mark draws closer, he can practically hear ticking in the back of his mind as every second passes by. It doesn’t matter that his assistant, Giacomo, is well-capable of diverting and handling business matters in his absence. He just hates feeling useless and hates wasting time even more.  
  
To be frank, it’s nearly driving him to insanity.  
  
“Hey, are you feeling any better?”  
  
Turning with a sniffle, Gokudera glances up at the smiling Japanese man standing in the doorway between the main sitting room and the kitchenette. He’s holding a steaming bowl of soup in one hand, and a package of crackers in the other.  
  
“What do you think?” Gokudera asks sulkily (though it comes out more like _“Whad do you thing”_ and it only makes him sound more pathetic). He grunts and sniffles again, grabbing for another tissue. “I feel like shit.”  
  
Yamamoto laughs sympathetically, sets the bowl of udon soup on top of the kotatsu in front of Gokudera, and fiddles with the plastic on the crackers before he sets those down as well. The soup smells fantastic (at least, what Gokudera can smell of it), and it’s one of the few things he think his sore throat can handle. He pulls his hands out from under the warmth of the kotatsu and rolls his sleeves back so he can grab for a set of chopsticks out of the holder on the table.  
  
“Do you need more tea?” Yamamoto asks, peering over Gokudera’s shoulder into the mostly-empty tea cup. “I’ll go brew some more.”  
  
“Don’t ask questions if you don’t want me to answer them, idiot,” Gokudera says, but the insult falls on immune ears. Yamamoto is already back in their shared kitchenette.  
  
With a sigh, Gokudera tucks into the bowl of homemade udon, slurping and enjoying the way the slippery texture of the noodles slides down his aching throat. There’s a little more salt in the broth than usual, but Gokudera knows it’s there for his throat as well, and the taste is hardly unpleasant. It’s a little unfair how well Yamamoto can cook Japanese food, almost like he’s had domestic housewife training.  
  
By the time Yamamoto brings back a fresh cup of tea, Gokudera is mostly finished with his small meal. Yamamoto places two mugs of tea down on the kotatsu before he firmly sets a plastic measuring lid full of gold liquid next to Gokudera’s mug of tea with a stubborn look that won’t allow for any excuses. Gokudera rolls his eyes as Yamamoto sits down next to him and wriggles so that his long legs can get under the warm futon draped around the table.  
  
“Stop kicking me,” Gokudera growls as he shifts, moving over to allow Yamamoto more room. “You big clumsy oaf. This kotatsu isn’t that big—sit like a normal person.”  
  
“Haha, sorry!” Yamamoto rubs his hand behind his head sheepishly. He wriggles some more, finally ending up with his legs leaning against Gokudera’s shins. “There. Better?”  
  
Gokudera scowls and downs the medicine with a grimace, but says, “It’ll do.”  
  
Before he can even reach for his mug of tea, a cool hand moves under his bangs and presses against his forehead. The gesture takes him by surprise, and he almost snarls at Yamamoto before he realizes that the idiot’s just trying to take his temperature.  
  
“You’re still warm,” Yamamoto murmurs, looking a little concerned. “I’m going to go get you one of those gel packs—”  
  
Gokudera grabs his hand as he moves to get up. With a look of surprise, Yamamoto blinks at him, and then at their joined hands. “Don’t even think about it, idiot,” Gokudera says. “I don’t want to have to put up with you kicking me to get comfortable all over again.”  
  
“Hahaha.” The plea for comfort goes unsaid, but is clearly understood. Yamamoto stays.  
  
They watch the news in silence—there are a lot of shrines advertising for Hatsumode this year, unsurprisingly—as Gokudera finishes his bowl of udon. The warm soup and hot tea and comfortable kotatsu are making his eyelids droop. He doesn’t even remember moving to the couch when he distantly notices a blanket being drawn over his body and a pillow being encouraged under his head. Part of him wants to snap at Yamamoto and tell him to stop treating him like a goddamned baby, but the part of him that’s warm and content and drowsy drains the energy to speak out of him. (Not that yelling at Yamamoto would do him any good, because Yamamoto’s a stubborn moron and would do what he wants anyway. Always does.)  
  
The apartment phone rings, but by then Gokudera’s almost asleep already and decides not to answer it.  
  
“I’ll get it,” Yamamoto says softly, his warm hand pressing a cool gel pack against Gokudera’s forehead briefly before the touch is gone. It’s the last thing Gokudera notices before he falls asleep.  
  
  
  
  
  
Two days until the New Year, Gokudera finds himself doped up on cold medication and trying to stay lucid through a “lunch meeting” with the Tenth. (The Tenth still insists on calling it a “friendly outing” with no business involved, but Gokudera knows better than to ever let his guard down just because of the Tenth’s typical underestimation of the world.) They’re not wearing their usual uniform of bullet-resistant suits or hidden belts of weapon boxes, and instead are just enjoying a home-cooked meal in the Vongola base kitchen in casual wear.  
  
Gokudera’s almost too warm—he’s wrapped in three layers and an oversized scarf, by way of Yamamoto’s insistence—but he isn’t sure if he’d be any more comfortable short a few layers, so he just leaves them all on.  
  
He feels _ridiculous_. Grabbing a tissue discreetly out of his pocket, he sniffles indignantly and quickly wipes at his nose. He’s so concerned with his own appearance that he nearly misses the Tenth’s important announcement.  
  
“I… um. I think I want to go do Hatsumode this year,” the Tenth says suddenly.  
  
Ryohei and Yamamoto are already vocalizing their excited agreement, but Gokudera waits a moment before the words sink in. This is happening in two days. _Two days._ His mind is already creating a list of preparations and security measures that will need to happen in order for the Tenth to safely participate in Hatsumode. Which shrines would have the least number of likely enemies? What kind of events would the Tenth want to participate in? Should they reserve a shrine all to themselves—  
  
A warm hand lands on his shoulder, and Gokudera looks up into Yamamoto’s beaming smile. “We haven’t gone in a few years. Don’t you think it’s about time we all go together, just for fun?” he says.  
  
“Hah, see how much _fun_ it is when we run into a bunch of Mafioso who don’t like Vongola very much,” Gokudera replies with a scowl.  
  
“Oh come on, what could be the harm in just going to a shrine for a few hours? We could just go do our fortunes, say a few prayers, enjoy some sake, warm our hands by the fire—”  
  
“That would take more than a few hours, dumbass,” Gokudera growls back. But one look at the Tenth’s hopeful face has Gokudera reconsidering. “But if the Tenth really wants to go, then I don’t really see any problem with it.”  
  
“He doesn’t have to ask your permission anyway, Stupidera,” says Lambo, his words half-obscured by a partial piece of taffy sticking out of his mouth. At thirteen, the brat still insists on picking fights with Gokudera whenever possible. “He’s the Boss, not you.”  
  
“Why you little—” (Even at twenty-two, Gokudera has hardly become immune to Lambo’s silly taunts.)  
  
“If it’s too much trouble,” the Tenth interjects, “then I understand. But I’d really like to go, especially since we’ve been so busy this past year.”  
  
Gokudera’s temper fades instantly at the hesitance in the Tenth’s voice. “N-No, it’s no problem at all!” he says with a suddenly bright smile, almost on par with Yamamoto’s trademark grin. “If the Tenth wants to go, I’ll happily join you.”  
  
Yamamoto presses down on Gokudera’s shoulder and says cheerily, “I’m looking forward to going with you this year, too, Tsuna! Haha.”  
  
The end of their lunch has Gokudera scrambling to message Giacomo to have him start on security preparations for Hatsumode. Only after the quick message sends does he swallow down another round of cold medication, pinching the bridge of his nose as he fights off a headache.  
  
  
  
  
  
It’s cold in Gokudera’s lab office. He’s got his fingerless gloves on, pencil tapping in annoyance against the side of the desk as he glares at the papers below him. There’s a snag in his calculations, and it’s driving him batty because neither equation he has found works, and the numbers aren’t balancing out (or even making sense, for that matter). He wants to blame the damn cold, but he knows it’s just a matter of time before he acknowledges the fact that he might not be good enough to figure this out, or the possibility that he’s trying to solve the unsolvable.  
  
With a sniffle, he yanks another piece of tissue out of the cardboard box sitting at the back corner of his desk, behind scattered papers covered in G-script and graphs and annoyed scribbles. He knows he would be more productive if he just took a damn break and did something else, but there isn’t anything else to do. Yamamoto is probably storming the halls of the base looking for him to yell at him, and Giacomo has Hatsumode security preparations well underway. The Tenth is enjoying time alone with Kyoko while everyone else just does their own thing.  
  
Gritting his teeth, he glares down at the calculations again, and grabs for his mug of tea—only to growl when he realizes it’s now cool, thanks to the lab temperature. A sane person would find a space heater, but he’s too worried about the delicate calibrations in the lab being thrown off by any temperature changes—even in his office, which is sealed off from the rest of the lab. One of his most important projects still sits in there, a half-completed skeleton of metal frames and wires that look almost like the beginnings of a mechanical lotus blossom, and he doesn’t want all that work to go to waste.  
  
He sniffles, but when he reaches for a tissue, his arm brushes against the mug of cold tea and jars it. With cat-like reflexes, he manages to grab it before it tips, but the contents have already been jarred enough to splash over the lip of the mug and onto the equation he’s just spent the last, oh, _seven hours_ wrestling with. A string of curses in Italian and Japanese, and he’s dabbing at the wet spot on the paper with his scarf when a knock at his office door makes him jump.  
  
“ _What_?” he roars. He doesn’t even bother turning around.  
  
“It’s just me,” a familiar voice says softly. “I brought you some more tea.”  
  
Gokudera glances over his shoulder, finding it difficult to hold a frown when he’s feeling like shit and Yamamoto’s grinning at him so brightly with _blessed hot tea_. He sniffles again as Yamamoto brings the tea forward, shoulders slumping in defeat. Yamamoto picks up the mug of cold tea and replaces it with the fresh one, and presses the back of his hand to Gokudera’s forehead.  
  
“You’re running a fever again,” he comments. “I know how important this project is to you, but it’s not worth it when you’re sick.”  
  
“What the fuck would you know about the importance of my project?” Gokudera snaps back, instantly regretting his tone. It isn’t Yamamoto’s fault he’s sick, or that he’s stuck on this equation, or that things aren’t going as planned.  
  
But Yamamoto somehow manages to be infinitely patient with him, as always. “If you don’t want to be bedridden for Hatsumode, maybe you should rest, haha.”  
  
 _Idiot has a point._ Priorities are priorities, though Giacomo has been doing a fine job of making preparations for their shrine visit.  
  
“Giacomo’s on the Hatsumode preparations,” Gokudera says, and then reaches for a tissue. He blows his nose, sniffles again miserably, and adds, “He’s been doing a pretty good job so far, I think.”  
  
“I know,” Yamamoto says. His tone is suddenly flat. “He was asking about you earlier.”  
  
Gokudera’s head snaps up, and he shoots a glare at Yamamoto. “Then why the hell didn’t you tell me?”  
  
With a sigh, Yamamoto says, “I know how you are about your projects, so I told him to wait until you resurfaced. With your fever, I figured it wouldn’t be long.”  
  
“I’m not an invalid, dammit!”  
  
Yamamoto chuckles and replies, “I never said that. I just figured you weren’t going to be working on this project as long as you usually do, since you’re still under the weather.” He peeks over Gokudera’s shoulder with raised eyebrows. “Looks like I came at a good time. Stuck?”  
  
“Fuck you, idiot,” Gokudera growls, moving his shoulders so that they block Yamamoto’s line of sight. “So what if I’m stuck?”  
  
“Which project is this one?”  
  
Gritting his teeth, Gokudera snorts irritably. “Doesn’t matter which one—wait, how the fuck do you know there’s more than one?”  
  
The all-knowing grin grates on Gokudera’s patience. “They don’t look anything alike on paper, even in G-script,” says Yamamoto, pointing a finger to the two different piles of papers. “That, and you organize them in separate stacks. S’kinda hard to miss.”  
  
Swatting at Yamamoto’s finger, Gokudera frowns. “It’s that easy to tell, is it?”  
  
“Nah, not really—I just know how you think,” Yamamoto replies (Gokudera swears there’s a hint of smugness in Yamamoto’s tone).  
  
“Aren’t you thinking too highly of yourself?” Gokudera asks with a wicked grin.  
  
Yamamoto shrugs, grinning back without saying a word.  
  
“Smug idiot asshole.”  
  
At that, Yamamoto laughs. Only for a moment, though; he pauses mid-chuckle and looks seriously at Gokudera for a few seconds, forehead wrinkling in ill-masked concern. It makes Gokudera uncomfortable, being scrutinized like that.  
  
“Are you sure this project isn’t something that can wait a few days?” Yamamoto asks. “You know, until you’re feeling better?”  
  
“I feel fine,” Gokudera snaps, trying to look busy as he taps his pencil against the same damn equation that’s been giving him so much trouble.  
  
“You don’t look it.” Before Gokudera can reply, Yamamoto’s hand is on his shoulder. “Hey.” He’s smiling when Gokudera cranes his neck up to look at him. “You don’t want to make yourself worse; otherwise you won’t be going to Hatsumode with Tsuna-kun and the rest of us.” (There’s a familiar hint of a threat in the way Yamamoto says this—a threat that says Yamamoto isn’t below doing _anything_ to ensure he gets his way. Gokudera knows he isn’t going to win this one.)  
  
He gives up. As much as he hates to admit it, Yamamoto’s right—he won’t get anything productive done when he’s feeling like shit. He’s likely to make himself feel even _worse_ , which would mean Yamamoto would end up forcing him to stay home from Hatsumode out of the cold wind.  
  
He doesn’t protest (much) when Yamamoto coaxes him out of the cold office, and back to their shared apartment. Fresh dose of cold medicine, change of clothes, and then Gokudera settles down on the couch with Yamamoto. It feels downright nice to have a robe and slippers on, leaning back into Yamamoto’s warm chest. They don’t get to share many moments like this in the three years they’ve lived together—never in public, because Gokudera is convinced that nothing good would ever come of the gossip—so he isn’t going to ruin this one.  
  
Yamamoto’s hand finds its way under his bangs again, and Gokudera almost growls with frustration.  
  
“I’m going to have a _certain idiot_ ’s permanent handprint there if you don’t stop that,” he says irritably.  
  
Yamamoto laughs sheepishly, but doesn’t move his hand. “Haha, sorry! I can’t help it sometimes. It was really high the other day.”  
  
“It’s just a damn cold.”  
  
“I know,” Yamamoto says, “But that doesn’t mean I’m going to let my guard down.”  
  
Gokudera bristles. “I’m not a fucking invalid, dammit!”  
  
The hand moves back over the top of his hair, smoothing Gokudera’s hair out of his face. Yamamoto shifts to lean in close to his ear, and Gokudera shudders as Yamamoto’s breath tickles his neck.  
  
“No, you’re not,” he says quietly, soothingly. “And that’s why I worry.”  
  
Frowning, Gokudera shifts against Yamamoto and cranes his neck to look Yamamoto in the eye. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”  
  
Yamamoto closes his eyes, smiles, sends a puff of breath out through his nose that brushes against Gokudera’s cheek in a soft burst of air. But he never says anything back.  
  
“ _Takeshi_ —”  
  
Gokudera’s cell phone rings, cutting him off. With an annoyed glare at Yamamoto, he shifts away to grab for his cell. It’s Giacomo, so he answers it—probably about Hatsumode plans. (He’s right.)  
  
It isn’t until later that night that Gokudera realizes he never got an answer out of Yamamoto.  
  
  
  
  
  
The second morning of the New Year is deceptively sunny. Gokudera squints as he pulls on a set of sunshades (he hasn’t been outside in a week), and then scowls when the chill of the wind cuts right through to his bones. With a sniffle, he knows he should be grateful that Yamamoto made him down that cold medication before they got here; he has a feeling he’d feel even shittier in this goddamn cold weather if he hadn’t taken it.  
  
The look on the Tenth’s face makes this all worth it, though—the Vongola boss is practically glowing as he walks around the shrine arm-in-arm with Kyoko. This is the first time they’ve gone out for a genuine holiday in a long while (Gokudera doesn’t remember the last time they did something like this). No meetings with other famiglia leaders, no politicians or law officers to bribe, no underground business dealings: these were the conditions for today’s outing, according to the Tenth.  
  
And much to Gokudera’s surprise, the outing is going well. Not a single sign of would-be assassins, spies, political vigilantes, or business saboteurs. Giacomo did a good job; Gokudera knows he's going to have to give that man a raise one of these days.  
  
Despite himself, Gokudera allows himself to smile as he flicks a cigarette out of the pouch in his trench coat pocket.  
  
“Are you sure you should be smoking?”  
  
 _Fucking mother hen—_ Gokudera grits his teeth, grinding them into the paper of the unlit cigarette between his lips. “I haven’t had one in _weeks_. The fucking patch isn’t cutting it for me.”  
  
“Haha, that’s because you don’t wear it consistently!” Yamamoto points out jovially and dodges Gokudera’s half-hearted swat.  
  
“Mind your own damn business,” Gokudera mutters, fingers fumbling for a lighter. “It’s the New Year, and I’m entitled to at least one goddamned cigarette!”  
  
Yamamoto laughs again, but he doesn’t argue with Gokudera this time. Instead, he sidles up next to Gokudera and puts his elbows on the railing overlooking the shrine’s botanical garden. Without a word, Gokudera turns and looks out over the garden as well; appreciating the fact that Yamamoto is acting as a rather effective wind blocker. Even with winter’s bare chill, it’s a beautiful place.  
  
“Hey, let’s go get omikuji before all the good ones are gone!” Yamamoto says. He sounds as excited as a toddler attending his first Hatsumode.  
  
“What are you, six?”  
  
“Haha, are you afraid you’ll get a bad fortune this year? If you do, I’ll switch with you!” Yamamoto is dead serious about this, then.  
  
Gokudera sighs. “Jesus, you really are just like a little kid,” he grumbles. Down below, he sees Lambo and Ipin dancing around the omikuji dispenser. “Fine. Let’s go before Lambo decides to take all the good ones out and leave nothing decent for the Tenth.”  
  
The air fills with the sounds of festival-goers (mostly Vongola-affiliated) and festivities, and Gokudera actually finds himself enjoying the atmosphere as he follows Yamamoto to the wooden crates stuffed with omikuji. This—some semblance of normalcy—is something he actually misses, even if he never would admit to it. They’ve all been pushing themselves so hard the last few years. It always seems like something large is at stake if they don’t stay on top of the workload: their lives, the lives of future Vongola generations, the entire goddamned _universe_ … It seems endless.  
  
Yamamoto cuts off his train of thought by holding out a coin for the omikuji. Moments like these let him forget, even if only for a while, that they’re on the frontlines of a never-ending battle.  
  
He smiles, takes the proffered coin from Yamamoto, and drops it in the box before he selects a rolled-up omikuji. Yamamoto’s eyes light up as he rolls open his omikuji—a good omen for the idiot this year, then. Gokudera peers over at the kanji for great blessing etched proudly across the top of Yamamoto’s omikuji. Hah, of course the idiot would have that kind of luck; maybe this year, it’ll rub off a little. Though when he slowly begins to unroll his own fortune, the first thing he sees is the kanji for _dai-kyou_ —great curse. He snorts.  
  
 _Always the extremes, huh?_ He looks skyward with a wry smirk.  
  
Yamamoto’s face suddenly appears next to his as the taller Guardian leans over Gokudera’s shoulder. “Eh?! Gokudera always has the worst luck!” he exclaims, reaching for Gokudera’s omikuji and trying to replace it with his own. “Here, let’s switch!”  
  
Gokudera jerks the paper out of Yamamoto’s reach. “Idiot! You’re not supposed to switch fortunes—we’ll both end up with bad luck this year!”  
  
“Haha, really? Well, ‘misery loves company,’ right?” Yamamoto makes another grab for the omikuji.  
  
“That’s a stupid idea—one of us needs to be able to balance the bad luck out!” With a twist, Gokudera moves the omikuji out of Yamamoto’s range. “Stop grabbing for it, you dumbass. It’s getting tied on the line anyway!”  
  
Yamamoto makes one last swipe at the omikuji, but half-slumps over Gokudera’s shoulders in defeat when he can’t quite reach it. With a huff that sends a brush of warm air between Gokudera’s scarf and his neck, Yamamoto moves his arms to pull Gokudera closer to him and buries his nose into the scarf.  
  
“Stop moping,” Gokudera says before Yamamoto can say a word. “It’s just a damn piece of paper.”  
  
Yamamoto chuckles into his neck, and Gokudera shudders at the breath on his neck, the lips that are _almost-but-not-quite_ brushing against his skin.  
  
“We’re still in public,” Gokudera hisses. As much as he likes this, they’ve got eyes on them today—Gokduera isn’t comfortable with anyone outside the famiglia knowing about their relationship (it’s as much weakness as it is strength). He’s feeling uncomfortably exposed, the knot in his stomach overriding any other overwhelming desires he might be feeling otherwise.  
  
“It’s the New Year,” Yamamoto says in half-protest. But when Gokudera stiffens, Yamamoto sighs and lifts himself off of Gokudera’s shoulders. Softly, he asks, “Later?”  
  
“Later,” Gokudera promises.  
  
But the knot in Gokudera’s stomach doesn’t go away, even after he ties the damn curse omikuji to the line and offers up a prayer after it.  
  
He tells himself (because if he tells himself enough, it won’t be a lie anymore) that it’s because he’s sick.  
  
  
  
  
  
It takes a week and a half for the cough to finally go away, but Gokudera is up and working at full steam long before then. Between the monstrous stack of paperwork that built up in his absence, additional calculations going into both side projects, and a couple of smaller missions on the side, Gokudera’s schedule is stretched to its limit.  
  
Yamamoto seems to be just as busy with his own schedule—most of which consists of either peace talk or assassination work (isn’t it odd that Yamamoto is surprisingly apt at both?). The former are usually missions directly from the Tenth; the latter are usually off of Gokudera’s desk because the Tenth still hates the idea of murder.  
  
To some, it would seem cold that Gokudera would send his lover on such dangerous missions. But there’s nobody else he can—or would—trust the way he can trust Yamamoto. The thought doesn’t ease the worry that’s always present in Gokudera’s mind, but Yamamoto refuses to allow Gokudera to doubt himself on these decisions.  
  
They haven’t seen much of each other lately, though—which makes it even harder when Gokudera gets a mysterious type-written note on his desk.  
  
It’s a tip-off, about one of his (hand-picked) subordinates. Gokudera’s breath catches in his chest when he sees that it’s another potential backstabber; it’s one of the new hires, but that doesn’t make this any less difficult. With a look around his office, Gokudera has no clue as to who could have left the note for him to find. _Did Giacomo see this? Hell, did Giacomo write this?_ There are too many questions, and not enough answers, because this is the second one this month. With a sigh, he looks down at his schedule, makes a few notes, and erases a meeting that he doesn’t actually _have_ to be at.  
  
He’s going to have to take care of this one himself. He doesn’t have a choice, because this is the second one this past month. Mutiny is the first thought on his mind, but there’s something else about this entire situation that’s bothering him. He’s going to have to dig deeper before he takes action on this one.  
  
 _Maybe there is no fighting Fate_ , he thinks. _Maybe all roads really do lead to Rome._  
  
Gritting his teeth, he shoves that thought viciously out of his mind, because he has come too far now to let all his hard work—on both projects, on ensuring the Tenth’s safety, on _everything_ the Vongola is now—fall to Fate’s hands.  
  
But part of him still worries that this is just the tip of a mess of an iceberg that he’s about to scrape past.

**_to be continued..._ **


End file.
